The Lies I Tell
by Charm and Strange
Summary: John has a shadow he's unaware of, and Sherlock takes up journaling to record a million moments that John can never discover. Warnings: sort of SH/JW, murder, infidelity, etc.
1. Act 1

**Charm and Strange: I've cranked another one out! Thanks goes to Mirith Griffin for inspiring this little beauty in one of our conversations. There will be chapters, updated every two weeks or sooner upon pain of death.**

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><p><strong>Scene One: Sherlock's Diary<strong>

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><p><strong>17 March, 7:34pm.<strong>

Thoughtful silence. Then: [backspace].

**The Records of One Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street**

_God no. If Mycroft had a journal, I'm sure this is how it would start—"The Records of Mycroft Holmes, Esq., of Her Majesty's Kingdom, London, England..."_

**Dear Diary. **

_What am I, a prepubescent twelve year old girl weeping over her first shallow broken heart?_

_Later. I'm doing this later. I need tea. Possibly something stronger. Like gaseous dihydrogen sulphide served in a floral-patterned tea cup._

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><p><strong>Entry One, 7:43pm.<strong> There's no milk. Or sugar. How does one make tea without milk and sugar? John must have taken it to his hotel.

And there we go. I knew I couldn't avoid it—the reason why I'm taking a leaf out of John's therapist's book, even if I don't think she deserves any sort of degree. State funded doctors, all substandard, every single one of them.

Well, diary, John's gone.

For good this time. I'm certain.

**Entry Two, Unspecified Time, Approximately Two Days After Entry One**

What does one write in these? All the case notes I need are stored safely in my mind, and there's nothing else worth noting or remembering. John obviously didn't have a better idea. He only wrote about our cases. My cases.

He just tagged along. It's not as if I needed him. He was just company. I'm not going to miss having to slow down to explain things to him, that's certain. And he's so unreasonable, filled with odd ideas about humanity. Where else is one supposed to keep meat, other than in the refrigerator? And what is a human head, if not meat? Why should I care about the victims if the emotional involvement is only going to get in my way later?

Ugh. I detest overly emotional displays like the above. This is clearly why I've limited my website to work-related aspects only. The violin calls.

**Entry Three, Approximately Ten Days After Entry Two**

That title is ridiculous. I will change it as soon as I think of a suitable replacement.

Lestrade had a case. Quite interesting. It involved ex-IRA rebels and a Miss America pageant. I can assure you, I would not have attended if I could have helped it. Cleveland is a deplorable town not worthy of human habitation. As for the ex-IRA members...well, let's just say I've successfully solidified several contacts in Ireland I didn't have before. Big Brother is always watching.

But I won't list out the case here as it's already written up on my web page. I do hate to repeat information.

There is one thing I was wrong about, however. I do miss

_Autosaved on 30 March, 3:24am_

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><p><strong>Scene Two: The Valley Between Intent and Dreams<strong>

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><p><em>John, come back at once. SH<em>

No, too controlled. John wouldn't leave his first anniversary dinner for _that_.

_John, danger! SH_

Something _better_ would be helpful, not something worse.

_John, please come home. I need you SH_

Sherlock sat back, staring at his phone and admiring his handiwork. Perfect. No better way to get John away from Susan than to subtly remind him that Baker Street was still home and that he was indeed still wanted and needed there. The missing period would just be the icing on the cake, leading John to believe Sherlock was seriously in distress. Sherlock was never ungrammatical if he could help it.

It would still take at least an hour for him to get back, what with that woman poisoning his mind and John's own loyalty to Sherlock warring with his affection for her. But maybe that was a good thing—it would give Sherlock plenty of time to think up a reason for his summons. He bit his lip and sent the text, leaning back in the kitchen chair to contemplate excuses.

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><p>It would work, simply because Sherlock could not afford it to fail.<p>

He was still at the kitchen table, but this time he was facing a veritable forest of Erlenmeyer flasks and beakers, all filled with various colored liquids and in various stages of precipitation. What better excuse for John than an experiment gone wrong? The test tube in question was held carefully in his dominant hand, fingers clenched white around the glass; this brand shattered rather spectacularly when hit at the right angle, Sherlock knew well. He furrowed his brows at the thin white liquid held inside; the acid was relatively mild, but burned and stung when in contact with skin.

Simply put, it was recipe for disaster, especially if one was distracted by something—say, oh, one's phone vibrating while in his pants pocket.

The pre-timed alarm on his mobile went off in his trousers, just as the kettle started whistling on the stove. Sherlock swallowed hard at the beaker in his hand. This would hurt.

Quickly, in one swift move, he knocked the glass tube in his hand hard against the microscope. Glass flew everywhere, coated with the white liquid. Beakers reacted with the new chemical and fizzed, frothed, smoked, changed colors, changed the color of his shirt. Blood drops landed on the beakers, the microscope, the table, the wall. His newly discolored shirtsleeve was now dark with his blood, and oh, did it burn! Corrosive pain lanced up his hand and forearm as the chemical seeped into his bloodstream.

He didn't notice the chair fall over, or when his haste to get up had knocked several other beakers to the floor. They pooled in one mess, the chemicals not mixing, but causing the spill to swirl together in a kaleidoscope of rusty reds, yellows, silvers, and whites. The water from the tap hit his wrist and he sighed, the pain dulling as the chemicals on his skin were slowly diluted. He turned slightly, taking in the effect of his planning: the chaotic chemical spill, the crime scene-worthy blood spatter on the wall and table, the blood and sweat and water soaking his own torso.

It all looked rather worse than it was. The razor sharp glass certainly was theatrical, but there was only one truly deep cut, and none of the chemicals he'd used would have lasting effects on him or Mrs. Hudson's furniture. If he had enacted his plan when he'd sent the text to John, the bleeding would have slowed to a mere trickle before he arrived back at Baker Street; he'd had to do it all a mere twenty minutes before John would return. At the most, all he'd need would be a few stitches.

He shut the water off, wincing slightly when he jarred his cut wrist against the tap. He carefully unbuttoned his shirt one handed and pulled it off, throwing it haphazardly against a chair as if he'd taken it off to stop the burns from continuing. The sleeve was, after all, completely soaked. A rag John used to dry off the dishes now became Sherlock's bandage, and he pressed it hard against the wound, biting off a curse; it wouldn't do for the bleeding to be _too_ intense, or John would certainly know the injury had been less than an hour old. He walked shirtless to the living room and settled into his favorite armchair, cradling his injured wrist to him and draping his dressing gown across his shoulders. Now to await the aftermath.

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><p>"Goddammit, Sherlock, you'd better have a bloody good reason for interrupting this!" John thundered from the hallway, anger making his steps quick and heavy; purposeful. He heard Susan shut the door quietly behind him, not caring enough to make pleasantries about taking her coat and such things. He opened the door to their flat, or, more accurately, turned the knob and shoved the rest of the wood out of his way. "The one night I ask off in weeks! You'd better be bleeding out on the floor, you..."<p>

The words died on his lips as he took in the sight of the living room. The room was dark, despite the light filtering through from the kitchen; Sherlock had pulled the doors mostly shut, and the curtains in the living room were drawn to block out light from the streetlamps below. Despite this, John could tell...something was off. Wrong. "Stay out there," John told Susan, not bothering to turn around or keep his voice down. If someone was in the flat, they'd have heard both of them by now. "Keep the door closed. Don't come in unless I call you."

She nodded, eyes wide and afraid, and shut the door in front of her. Keeping to his military training, John expanded his senses as much as he could with anger and frustration pounding in his brain and the tinny whistle of the kettle blocking out all other noise. Piles of papers and files had been knocked over. The coffee table had been wrenched to one side and one cushion from the couch had been pulled off. Books had been scattered across the floor, some open and spines cracking. It looked like an all out brawl had taken place in their small sitting room...or that someone in great pain had stumbled around, desperately searching for help.

John's stomach lurched. There was no sign of Sherlock.

As he neared the kitchen, the acrid smell of chemicals almost overwhelmed him. One of Sherlock's experiments, to be sure. John cursed and sighed in annoyance and walked through open the doors, expecting to see Sherlock sitting there, angry at the interruption, having completely forgotten about the text.

What he didn't expect was a crime scene. John looked around in horror, backing up into the living room in shock. Blood adorned the walls and cabinets in a nearly-arterial spray; beakers and flasks had reacted and fallen over, evaporating and discoloring Mrs. Hudson's linoleum. There was still water and blood in the sink; Sherlock's blood soaked shirt was thrown carelessly over a chair. And over it all, the tiny shards of a broken vial that must have contained the acid that had bleached Mrs. Hudson's table a pale, unfinished maple.

He switched off the kettle automatically, jaw clenching. Sherlock couldn't have lost that much blood and been alright, not for an hour. At the very least he'd have passed out. John needed to find him. Immediately. He turned around, throwing the kitchen doors wide to let out the light and heading back into the living room.

That's when he saw it. There was a scattered trail of red drops leading haphazardly to Sherlock's favorite chair, which was...Oh dear Lord.

John sprinted to the chair, heart not beating, face pale from shock. "Susan! Call 999! Sherlock's bleeding out!"

Sherlock's armchair was soaked with blood. It had pooled on the seat, trickled down the legs. Sherlock must have slipped off the seat when he passed out. John threw himself to the blood-slicked floor, reaching for his flatmate with hands that should have been trembling but were actually perfectly steady. He was pale, much to pale, obviously anemic, covered in his own blood. It had dried in brown streaks on his naked chest, ran in red rivulets down his chest and into his hair, soaked his pants half-way down the thigh.

Tied to his wrist as a makeshift tourniquet was the drying rag. "Susan!" John roared, fingers scrabbling to pull the wet, knotted rag off and pressing deep into the wound, trying to stop the trickling blood. His slippery fingers found the artery and veins and he pressed down, fingers white and muscles shaking with effort.

This accomplished, he shoved one hand to Sherlock's neck and quickly took his pulse, cursing when it was much too low and his skin much too cold. John looked around, fear and emotion making him nearly panic. Where _was_ that woman? "_**Susan**_! I need a blanket! Get Sherlock's coat first, then the one from my bed, up the stairs! _HURRY_!"

And then he was pulling the heavy coat onto Sherlock's cold, nearly lifeless body one-handed, tucking his thick quilt into the contours of his best friend's body, still holding his arteries closed with a hand numb from the effort. He shucked off his own coat and jumper hurriedly, adding it to the pile, and laid one hand across Sherlock's forehead to monitor his temperature and breathing. "Keep breathing, Sherlock, come on," John murmured, biting his lip and looking to the windows. That bloody ambulance had better get here soon; John couldn't afford to let go of Sherlock's wrist long enough to stitch the wound up himself.

A low moan sounded from below him and Sherlock winced, eyes opening blurrily. "John? What..."

John looked down into Sherlock's face in shock and couldn't help but smile, panting in relief. "Shh, don't you worry, alright? It'll be fine. I'll take care of you."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to focus on something over John's shoulder and John didn't even know how it was possible for his already pale face to blanch even more.

"John, Susan, no, I don't—" Sherlock coughed weakly, his thin frame wracked and contorted even at the small force. "I don't want her here, John..."

"Don't pay attention to her, Sherlock. Just concentrate on me, alright? I want you to stay awake. Tell me what you were doing over there, okay?"

The simple request seemed to throw Sherlock off, and he kept glancing from John's face to Susan in the kitchen. He opened his mouth, breath quickening, but said nothing.

"Careful in there, Susan. He's got chemical burns."

"John," Susan's voice called softly from the direction of the kitchen, giving no indication she'd heard him. "John, you need to see this..."

He cursed, jaw clenching and fingers tightening around Sherlock's body. "I did, Susan," he snapped. "It doesn't matter right now! Let me concentrate on not letting him _die_, alright!"

Just then, a wail sounded from up the street and pounding started at the downstairs door. "Open the door, Susan," John commanded, turning from Sherlock momentarily. Susan didn't move from examining some beaker on the kitchen table. "Listen, I don't care if you found the stolen crown jewels in there! _Let the damned paramedics in!_"

And then she was stumbling, running down the stairs, throwing open the door, and there were men there, asking what happened and John was telling them about the arterial spray and the makeshift tourniquet and they were bundling Sherlock up into the ambulance asking if he wanted to go in the back with them and of course he did, were they blind, and he'd forgotten all about Susan.

One burly paramedic was trying to force a breathing tube down Sherlock's throat, despite Sherlock weakly trying to bat his hand out of the way. "John," he croaked, and John moved closer, clutching his uninjured hand in the closeness of the screaming ambulance. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean...miscalculation..."

And his lead lolled to the side as he passed out.

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><p><strong>Scene Three: Doubt Truth to be a Liar<strong>

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><p>He was going to be okay. God. Thank God. He could have died. Was dying, with each breath that had puffed its life against John's fingers. There could have been brain death, if too little blood had been getting to his brain. Heart trouble, as his heart had beat faster and faster trying to pump too little blood through his body. Nerve damage, if the glass had cut too deep. He could have died. Would have, if John had arrived ten minutes later. And Sherlock would be dead.<p>

What if he hadn't have come at all, had just ignored the text and proposed to Susan in the park like he'd planned?

Dead. Oh God.

John didn't know how many hours it had been since they'd gotten to the hospital. Sherlock had been whisked away at once, hidden from view by the hordes of nurses and A&E doctors surrounding him, calling out his blood pressure, pulse rate, yelling for pints and pints and pints of O negative blood and IV drips and oxygen masks. What are those chemical burns; he's going to crash; no, he's not; thank God the bloke who found him was a doctor.

But no. Sherlock was stable now, would be alright. No lasting damage. Still a bit anemic, slight iron deficiency, didn't eat much, did he, that guy? Do you want to see him?

It seemed like hours, but John had been sitting there next to Sherlock's bed for just a few minutes. Sherlock had never woken up after he'd passed out in the ambulance, but John wasn't too worried. This time it had been medically induced to help him heal; it must have been written on Sherlock's record what a lousy patient he made. He was still too pale, too weak. It would take days for him to get his strength back, and it was unlikely the scar on his wrist would ever fade.

John had often heard it said that sleeping patients looked peaceful, but he didn't think Sherlock had ever looked less peaceful in his life. He looked exhausted and worried, as if his brain was still running to ruin inside of his unresponsive head.

About ten hours, that's what the doctors had said. About ten hours until he's awake enough so you can talk to him. You can go home, change out of those bloodstained clothes, sleep a little.

John wondered if it was even physically possible to move from the uncomfortable hospital chair next to Sherlock's bed.

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><p>He must have fallen into a fitful doze somewhere around hour three, because he awakes with a start around hour nine when Susan comes in through the doors.<p>

"The doctors told me he's stable," she says flatly, standing on the other side of Sherlock's bed.

John scrubs a hand over his face, glad he'd at least cleaned the blood off of his hands. "Yeah, thank God. He'll be awake in about...yeah, about an hour from now."

She stands awkwardly for a few more minutes then sits on another chair, adjusting her handbag against her bright red nails. It's quiet, too quiet, an uncomfortable quiet. "John," she starts softly, finally looking up at him. "That thing yesterday. It really was important."

"What thing—Oh, that?" John sighs, trying his hardest to remember Susan's insistence he see something on the table. Last night is mostly a blur in his memory; he hasn't been this truly exhausted in months. "Yes, it might have been."

"It _was_," Susan insists forcefully, the beginnings of a stern scowl on her face. "You should have saw it. It won't be there now."

Oh, hell, she isn't going to go into this _now_, was she? John closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them to fix his tired gaze on her. "I don't care how important it was, Susan, alright? He was dying, right there on the floor!"

"And you're always the one he calls, aren't you? Not 999? He's got you right in his pocket, John!"

John lets that comment stand, staring at his girlfriend in abject confusion. "Just to clarify," he starts, heartbeat picking up in disbelief and anger. "I discovered my best friend nearly dead last night, and you're insulted by how I treated you?"

Susan looks away, pursing her red lips, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. "You shouted at me, ordered me around, ignored me, and left me at your flat! _Left me there_, with all those chemicals and all that blood! Why wouldn't I be angry, John?"

"Right, Susan...I can't even believe we're talking about this." John barks out a cynical laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm a combat physician, remember? I'm trained to do whatever I need to do in any situation in order to save lives, and you're going to question that?" His face hardens as he catches her gaze again. "Do me a favor, alright? _Don't_. If you were the one bleeding out on the floor and I had Sherlock there to help me, he would have obeyed me unquestionably, without complaint. I don't care what else is happening, saving a life is always more important!"

"No, John, you _were_ a combat physician. Now you're a respectable doctor with steady hours and a private practice!" The words hang in the air like an accusation, and John has to look away, swallow, shut his eyes. The best years of his life—what he still truly is, on the inside, what Sherlock _knows_ he still is—and she shoves it away, ashamed it ever existed. But he has to move on, right? Afghanistan was years ago, and it's never coming back.

"It doesn't matter what kind of doctor I am," John whispers, eyes still shut. "I am the way I am. His life comes before everything."

"Yes, it's always about him, isn't it?" Susan hisses, ignoring his words again. "It's always about him with you, do you even listen to yourself? Well, listen to me for once, got it? You need to hear what I found in that kitchen!"

"Susan," John says tightly, warningly. Something's warring in his chest, the need to break something fighting with the thing breaking him. "Fine. Just tell me. Tell me what was more important than my best friend's life."

But now that Susan has the opportunity to talk, it doesn't seem like she wants to. She frowns and looks down, worry lines appearing on her forehead. "You got the text for help about forty-five minutes before we got to the flat, right? Well, I found a beaker of that chemical he got all over himself when the vial broke. It's a white liquid when it's first formed, but it precipitates over time to form a white precipitate and a colorless solute."

She stares meaningfully at John like this would mean something important, but she often forgets that army doctors are not trained in chemistry as well as she is. "Get to the point, please, Susan," John mutters quietly, his patience nearly at its limit for the day.

She takes a deep breath and starts talking, her anger seeming to have abruptly drained away and left only pity in its place. "John, it's a reaction that takes time. If it had been sitting for an hour, it would have been all separated—instead, not even half of it was. That solution was made no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes before I found it, which means Sherlock couldn't have cut himself more than twenty minutes before we came."

Twenty minutes? A mere twenty minutes? But he'd gotten the text an hour before...No, it couldn't be, could it? Could Sherlock have honestly _planned_ this? He'd said he'd miscalculated, but John had taken that to mean in regards to his experiment, not his timing.

While John is well aware of the countless ways Sherlock can and does manipulate him, this...this is heartless. Unbelievable. Sherlock knows the intense survivor's guilt John has, as well as the nightmares that plague his sleep about the soldiers he couldn't save. Tripping that particular trap door—the one that reminds him of pain and sand and blood and screams—just to guilt John into never leaving Sherlock's side is inexcusable.

John thought Sherlock knew that boundary was sacred, thought Sherlock cared enough about John to never go that far. He'd obviously thought wrong.


	2. Act 2

**Charm:**** Merry Christ****mas everyone. I know I promised to have this chapter out a week and a half ago, but I had finals and then the holidays. I hope it won't happen again; at the very least, I'll try to never go longer than three weeks without an update.**

**Enjoy!**

**Note: as this site won't let emails be posted in chapters as it effing ridiculous, I'm just going to tell you the ones I had planned to use for John and Sherlock. John's is **john . watson (at) blogspot . co . uk** (in the chapter it's johnwatson) and Sherlock's is **sherlockholmes (at) thescienceofdeduction . co. uk** (though in the chapter it's sh).**

**I also created fake forums for this chapter, but as this website's designers have no creativity, I can't format that part of the chapter correctly. If anyone wants to see my creative genius really shine, PM me and I can direct you to a website that'll display it correctly.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Scene One: The Best of Me <strong>

Baker Street, at last. It'd taken another day, but finally the doctors had released him into John's care.

John's care. At the moment, Sherlock doesn't think anything is less likely. John hadn't been there when Sherlock woke up; John hadn't been there when the hospital psychologists had grilled him about suicidal desires; John hadn't been there at all. He'd showed up with a bag of clothes and a stony expression right when Sherlock was discharged, and had hailed a cab and not even spoken at Sherlock to order him in.

There aren't words to describe how Sherlock feels—or, more accurately, he doesn't have words to describe any of it. He's done more in the last two days to further the notion that he is a sociopath than he has in the last year, and he's not proud of it. What was he _thinking_, planning to thrust chemical burns and bloody wounds on an ex-Royal Army Doctor? John has every right to be furious with him; Sherlock's disgusted at _himself_.

John doesn't even pause when he enters the door, just strips off his jacket, sweater, and t-shirt on his way to the shower and lets them fall to the floor behind him. Sherlock swallows. He's tired—incredibly tired—but he doesn't want to sleep now. It would only exacerbate John's anger. Instead, he perches on the couch because his armchair is still covered in blood and presses his hands together in front of his mouth.

Now that it's quiet, he can't ignore it any longer. He's terrified, terrified of what's he's done to John. He knows he crossed some sort of uncrossable line last night, and John's never been this angry before. For the first time in his life, Sherlock has no idea how to repair this, how to make it better, and he knows the consequences of him failing are higher than they ever have been before.

And all he'd wanted was for John to come back home to him, where he belonged. Sherlock leans forward and chokes down a cough that feels too much like a sob.

He has no idea how much time passes, but the next time he looks up is when John is thundering down the stairs, hair already dried from the shower, duffel bag in hand. He sets it by the wall and stalks around to stand right in front of Sherlock. He's stiff, angry. His fists are clenched and he tilts his head and his neck cracks. When he speaks it's clipped and short, carefully annunciated."Care to explain what exactly you were thinking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't look at him. He lowers his hands to his lap. The silence screams for voices to puncture it, but Sherlock takes his time. The longer he draws this out, the longer it'll take John to leave, and Sherlock's feeling horribly numb. "Explain what? You heard what I said. Miscalculation."

John shakes his head, laughs. It's not funny, and both of them wince at the sound. "You remember that, do you? Well then, you should remember that it wasn't a fucking accident, was it?"

"I failed to plan for all the variables. I daresay I will not fall for the same mistake again."

If the silence was screaming before, now it's noticeable in its absence. The air is death, and all Sherlock can hear is John's breath pounding in his ears. "That's what we're calling it then, an experiment? So the fact that I had to go this bloody flat in the middle of a date to find you practically dead on the floor doesn't matter a bit?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, because really, what can he say to that? He knows it's incorrect, that John has missed some vital piece of information, but right now he'll fight for whatever John will give him.

John turns and moves towards the kitchen before he remembers the blood and backtracks quickly towards the stairs to his bedroom. "Are you going to even answer me?" His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, and a little muffled from facing the wall. "What's it going to be next, Sherlock? On my wedding day are you going to overdose on some drug you're testing for a case and call me up, high as a kite with a temperature high enough to cook your brain? Will you start getting shot every time you want me back? I can't live like that, Sherlock."

And Sherlock wants to shake his head, tell him that's not how it is, he's got it all wrong, but at the same time he can't make himself move. Urges are bubbling inside him, yearnings, fears, and angers and all of the sudden he knows they're going to come crashing out and poison everything like an oil spill.

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes carefully, evenly. It's as if the world is ending and he's recording every moment even though he knows it won't last. "Then don't."

John turns, eyebrows raised and newly furious. He pauses, checks himself, cocks his head. "What?"

"Don't live here then!" Sherlock snaps, slamming his hands down on his knees and scowling up at John's face. "You don't think I've heard your feelings on the matter? About how hard it is, living with a _'mo__ody, messy, arrogant, narcissistic, manipulative savant of a man who doesn't even care if a teenage girl kills herself in front of him'_?" He snarls the self-deprecating insults from John's blog as if they're stabbing him and John winces accordingly.

John looks away and breathes in slowly. "You know that's not fair Sherlock."

The worst part is that Sherlock does know it's not fair and that it's upsetting John further, but he can't help but bring it up. There's a hole in his chest that all _this_ is flowing from—this rush of emotions, this staggering, exhausting, overwhelming press of need and terror and guilt, and though that specific post had been made weeks ago after a particularly hard case, he can't stop the hurt from vomiting out of him like bile.

"Is it not fair, John?" Sherlock spits out, and its caustic edge is enough to make the hole where his heart should be just a little bit bigger. He adopts a mocking tone before quickly morphing it back into a spear of ascerbity. "Who were you talking about again? Oh yes, _me_! What, do you think I _like_ to hear that? It's obvious how you feel about me! If you want to leave and never see me again so badly, _just_ _leave_!"

John opens his mouth, obviously newly wounded and angry, but Sherlock plows on, heedless, not wanting to hear John's replies. "Oh, did you think you could hide it from me? Like you could ever hide something from me John—you could _never_ hide anything from me. You get up early, leave early, get back late. Even when you're here, it's all about _her_, John! There's nothing left of you for me! Just because I want you—"

"No, Sherlock. You do _**not**_ get to make this about _**you**__,_ get it?" John yells, bending forward slightly and balling his hands. "You almost died! Ten minutes and you would've been! You almost died because you didn't want me on a date, and what, you don't find any problem with that? That just sounds normal to you? Because I'll tell you what, that's _**not bloody normal**_! You don't get to control my every move and guilt me into doing whatever you want! I swear to God, Sherlock, I'd rather never see you again!"

And that's when everything in him freezes. The anger turns from a white-hot flame of injustice to a thin, red coating of defense. If he can anger others when he wants to, charm them into confessions and admissions when it suits him, what stops him from being able to treat John the same way? Why should John be perfectly fine with Sherlock interrupting his working day to go to a crime scene and yet get angry at an interrupted date? Comprehending his motivations and purposes should be enough to understand him, and yet it _isn't_, because there's something _different_ about this time and it makes Sherlock's stomach clench in foreboding.

He knows that what he'd done wasn't entirely _'good'_, but Sherlock also knows that had never really bothered John before—John knowsthat Sherlock's conscious seems to habitually take a wrong turn between abstract thought and conscious ideas. So, what was different about two days ago?

Besides a nagging, lingering feeling of unease and John's obvious anger, Sherlock really doesn't know. God, if he _did_ know what part of his mind was responsible for this hurt, he'd pluck it out of his own brain and leave it to rot in the gutters.

And then the world abruptly begins to move again. Sherlock's gaze falls down and to the side as his insides roil in discomfort and that maddening apprehension.

"Dammit, Sherlock, don't turn away from me," John growls, uncrossing his arms and striding towards him. Sherlock doesn't react until John slams his hands onto the couch on either side of him, his face pressing uncomfortably close. "Do you even understand why I'm upset?"

This is deteriorating fast, faster than Sherlock had anticipated. His outbreak earlier had been unplanned and ill-thought-out. "John, I'm tired, I don't think now's the best time—"

"Oh no, I think now's perfect."

Sherlock swallows, feeling a burning knot in his chest form. He doesn't like this, doesn't like the feelings John brings up in him, doesn't like things that upset his tenuous balance.

"Just tell me. Tell me why you did this. Can you at least do that, Sherlock?"

"You wouldn't understand, John. I don't expect you to."

And then John looks at him like so many others have before, and Sherlock feels something inside of himself shatter. "So, what, you're not even going to _try_? I'm not a dog, Sherlock! We're not _equal_ in this partnership you think we have!"

Sherlock's chest tightens, floods with barely-concealed panic. "It wasn't about _you_, it was merely a—"

"That's _**bullshit**_!" John shouts finally, slamming his hand down next to Sherlock's pale neck.

Silence. Just his chest, rising and falling, rise and fall and rise and fall and fall and fall.

"Fine," Sherlock snaps, not able to stop his eyes from seeking John out, terrified at the realization that John has no idea of his own worth in Sherlock's eyes. "Why did it do it? I wanted to. What else am I supposed to say? I can't change my own self, John!"

Silence falls like lightning, and Sherlock knows that yet again he's taken it too far; the ominous feeling that had been floating in the air is now all but palpable, and it nearly makes him gag. Sometime during their fight John had leaned back and Sherlock had stood up, and now John abruptly pulls back, looks down and away from Sherlock. He stumbles back a few paces and then strides to the wall to pick up his bag.

"Where are you going?" And now the panic's coming, far too late, bringing with it a realization that should have come months before: if John leaves now, Sherlock will lose him forever.

"Just don't..." John doesn't look back, just hoists the duffel bag on his shoulder. "Out. I'm going out. Don't wait up."

The heart that Sherlock nearly lost not even forty-eight hours ago is stuttering, clenching, aching. He thinks he's frozen, he must be, because this would never happen in real life. This must be a dream, a hallucination. John can't leave. John is everything. "But...I'm _hurt_," he hears himself whisper as the world expands around him.

It's a phrase that has always sent John running to him in the past, and he's never questioned that—just used it to his advantage, along with everything else in their relationship. However, today...today Sherlock suddenly realizes how much more those words mean, and they hang between them like a miasma. _I'm hurt, I'm always hurt, and you're the only one who cares enough to take care of it. I'll be lost without you, and you know that, I _know_ you do. Am I really nothing to you now, John?_

John pauses, looks down, shakes his head. "I can't do this anymore. Take care of yourself." And with a last burst of willpower he leaves their—Sherlock's—flat, letting his own subtext permeate the air behind him, and Sherlock's not quite sure if it's directed to his words or his thoughts, not quite sure how to figure it out now. _I'm not going to be there for you, Sherlock. I don't want to be, not now._

So sudden. Sherlock feels more alone than he's ever felt in his entire life, and the shock makes him contract like his lungs are paralyzed in his chest. Without the bridge of John connecting him to the rest of the world, he suddenly realizes just how small his island is. He sinks down, curls on the floor like a child. He wonders if he'll cry like a child as well—it would fit with how he feels about himself—but everything is too stark.

If only he'd paid attention! So many things he'd missed, staring at the John he saw in his mind's eye and ignoring the one right in front of him. Why does today have to be his epiphany? He's too late now, just like he's always been too late with John, and with everything that really matters, actually. The work will always be there. John won't.

And he was wrong about something else as well, wasn't he? He looks up at the ceiling, so far above him. The world isn't expanding around him. He's shrinking.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude (Email)<br>**

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 17, 3:14 pm

John,

I understand your anxiety, _(but i clearly don't, not how it counts, and that's what's always mattered to you, isn't it?)_ but you are clearly overreacting. It was a simple miscalculation; it is unlikely that I will make a similar misjudg [DELETE]

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 17, 4:47 pm

John,

I appreciate your concern over my supposed "manipulative suicide", but there's really nothing you should concern yourself over. As I have told you many times, it was merely a miscalculation _(was it really?)_ and [DELETE]

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 19, 2:19 am

John,

Stop this at once. You should thank me for disrupting your date with that [DELETE]

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 23, 4:53 am

John,

You know you'll be happier here with me. She doesn't know you like I do. No one knows you like I do. No one will ever know you like I know you. No one will ever be able to excite you like I do. No one needs you like

_Saved as draft, March 23, 4:59 am_

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Two: Sherlock's website<strong>

The Science of **Deduction **

Case Files

The Irishman's Daughter

Case Closed

A Martin O'Shaughnessy was referred to me yesterday. His wife was shot and killed two weeks ago while visiting London. He's worried that his daughters may be next. Daughters live in America, so the MET is useless. I love professional assassins, so I'm taking this on.

Background: The O'Shaughnessys live in Ireland, where Martin was involved in the IRA about twenty years ago. He's received sporadic threats from the IRA since then, warning him to keep his mouth shut about what he knows. Martin's been ignoring the warnings because he doesn't want his daughters finding out about his old life. He thinks his old friend Seamas Doyle is retaliating.

Two weeks ago: Martin and his wife, Mary, are visiting London when Mary's shot twice in the chest. I've examined the body, and the bullets obviously came from a sniper rifle. Seems like Martin's right about murder. He thinks his two daughters are next. I think he's next.

Looks like I get to catch an assassin.

Update: Have been checking various IRA connections around London. Martin's obviously on the Irish side of things. Looks like I'll need to go to Ireland for this.

Update: In Dublin. Found Barney Donahue and Dermot Fitzgerald, old colleagues of Martin's. Dermot still keeps up with IRA business. Got them to tell me everything possible about Martin, his old days in the IRA, and his family. Seems like he was a bit wild twenty years ago. Bit of a pyromaniac. Never would think it, looking at the dull family man he is now. But according to Barney and Dermot, he was never very high up in the hierarchy. He never knew enough to seriously impact the IRA.

So why's he being targeted? Barney says Mary was still friendly with some members behind Martin's back, namely Glenn Keary and Seamas Doyle. Sounds like she was cheating on him with his enemies, stupid woman. Seems like it must be personal.

Must rethink this.

Update: Martin's been keeping information about his family from me. That won't do. I called him today and some new information surfaced.

Martin and Mary have two girls, Dearbhla and Deirdre. The younger daughter, Dearbhla, was born full term on August 5th eighteen years ago, which would make her conceived around December the year before. Martin was in gaol until the 17th of January that year for arson. If Dearbhla was conceived after January 17th, she would have been born premature. Possible theories presenting themselves.

Update: Have confirmed that Dearbhla was born full term. Questioned Martin, he had no idea. Obviously genuine reaction. Asked him if he knew his wife was also in the IRA. Also says he had no idea. I think I'm losing IQ points by simply talking to this man.

Also—Seamas Doyle has red hair and blue eyes, while Glenn Keary is black haired and brown eyed. Genetics rule: Keary is our man.

Summary: Twenty-seven years ago, Martin O'Shaughnessy marries Mary. While she knows he's in the IRA, she keeps the fact that she is in it to herself. She starts cheating on him almost immediately with Glenn Keary, and while Deirdre is Martin's daughter, Dearbhla is not. Martin decides to sever his ties with the IRA; Mary is in too deep to do the same, and besides, she doesn't want to give up her lover. Twenty years later, Mary feels guilty for the deception and tells her daughters the truth. Girls are horrified, move to America to get away from their admittedly dysfunctional family.

Glenn Keary hears that Mary's told her side of the story. He's worried about Mary implicating him and his friends finding out he had a relationship with Martin's wife, who was blacklisted when she married him. Glenn Keary and Seamas Doyle decide to kill her and her daughters to keep them quiet.

I've emailed Martin this. The case would be closed, but I have two girls to find before Keary and Doyle do.

Update: In Cleveland, Ohio, where both Dearbhla and Deirdre have settled. This town is excrement compared to London. Deirdre O'Shaughnessy proved stupidly easy to find, as she's entered a Miss America pageant. She can lead me to her sister.

Update: At the pageant, in disguise. Can't have too many males from the UK running around Cleveland. Turns out this "Deirdre O'Shaughnessy" has brown hair and brown eyes. Looks like since Dearbhla is six months too young to enter the pageant that she used her sister's ID to enter. Also looks like Glenn Keary and Seamas Doyle know this.

Update: Cornered Doyle in the balcony, setting up his "camera tripod". Hit him on the back of the head with a stiletto. It wasn't mine. He's out cold. Found Keary making a break for it out the back entrance when he realized Doyle had been caught. He was actually stopped by security. The MET may have something to learn from this department about actually catching criminals.

Now waiting for my contact from the FBI to arrive. He owes me a favor, so he'll arrest Doyle and Keary and make sure they're sent back the the UK for trial.

Case closed. I think I'll charge Mr. O'Shaughnessy double for every hour spent in our horrible ex-colony.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude<strong>

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 27, 8:25 pm

John,

Why is everything never enough if you're not here? What am I now, if not nothing? My mind won't rest _(this case should have been over three days ago and i'm so exhausted)_

_Saved as draft, March 24, 8:32 am_

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 29, 11:45 am

John,

Is there no release from you? Even drugs don't have the appeal they once did, and my violin is no escape from this _(if i wasn't still so weak from the incident i'd find someone to shoot me; there's no shortage of offers, as you well know) _

[DELETEDELETEDELETEDELETE]

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Three: Sherlock's website<strong>

The Science of **Deduction**

Latest forum posts:

**G Lestrade****: Sherlock, answer your phone. Got one you'll like.**

(reply)**SH: The assassination of Mary O'Shaughnessy, I presume?**

(reply reply**)G Lestrade: If you know so much, THEN COME!**

**Sally Donovan: Where's your friend, freak?**

(reply)**SH: Elsewhere.**

(reply reply)**MET Chief Crime Scene Analyst: You know we'll find the body, psycho.**

(reply reply reply)**SH: Anderson, if you're the best "crime scene analyst" the MET could find I've got nothing to worry about.**

**G Lestrade: Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in Ireland? You know I don't have jurisdiction there!**

(reply)**SH: No, but I do.**

(reply reply reply)**G Lestrade: NO you don't! Where's John? I could use him to keep you in line.**

(reply reply reply reply)**SH: He won't be around any more.**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**G Lestrade: What did you do?**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**Sally Donovan: I told you he'd snap one day. Freak's probably hiding the body now.**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**G Lestrade: Get off the internet and back to work, Donovan.**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**Sally Donovan: Like you are, sir?**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**G Lestrade**: **NOW**.

**Molly Hooper: Hi Sherlock. You know how you said to keep you informed if I learned anything about #45827? Well, the hairs I found in that necklace weren't hers. Do you want to come by and check it out? XX**

(reply)**SH: I already told you that necklace was a keepsake and the hair is probably her daughter's.**

(reply reply)**Molly Hooper: Oh, well, if it's her daughter, the DNA doesn't match Martin O'Shaughnessy.**

(reply reply reply)**SH: What? Are you sure?**

(reply reply reply reply)**Molly Hooper: I've ran the test again with the same results. Do you want to come and check it out?**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**SH: No. I've got all the information I need now.**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**Molly Hooper: Oh okay. Good luck Sherlock. XX**

**SH: SHE CHEATED! How could I miss that! The daughter even has dark brown hair, not light like her parents! Oh, stupid, stupid...**

(reply)**G Lestrade: Sherlock, what the hell is going on? It's my case, you need to keep me informed! That bloody post of yours doesn't make any sense! No wonder John always writes up your cases, no one can understand you!**

(reply reply)**G Lestrade: Speaking of John, where is he?**

**SH: Case solved.**

(reply)**MO: Have you found my daughters yet, Mr. Holmes?**

(reply reply)**SH: Details.**

(reply reply reply)**MO: There's a killer out there looking for them!**

(reply reply reply reply)**SH: Contact someone in America to find them. You'll find that the detectives in America are much closer to Ohio than I am.**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**MO: Mr. Holmes, that's the only family I have left!**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**SH: And they won't even pick up the phone when you call. My condolences.**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**MO: Please Mr. Holmes! I'll pay your way!**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**SH: I'll send you the bill.**

**John's Susan: Sherlock, those were my favorite beige Jimmy Choo stilettos and I expect them to be returned! They were over 1000 quid!**

(reply)**Sally Donovan: Give it up. Freak stole my Prada handbag two months ago and hasn't even mentioned it.**

**Molly Hooper: Sherlock, I did the paternity test with the hair like you asked, and Glenn Keary is the father.**

(reply)**MO: What? What hair? Dearbhla's? What's going on? Mr. Holmes, answer your phone!**

(reply reply)**Molly Hooper**: **I'm sure he'll get back to you as soon as he can. Your daughter has a pretty name, by the way :)**

(reply reply reply)**MO: Er, yeah, thanks. This is bloody insane.**

(reply reply reply reply)**SH: Molly, it's "Der-vla", not "Dear-bluh".**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**Molly Hooper: How did you know I was saying it wrong?**

(reply reply reply reply reply)**SH**: **It's you. Obvious.**

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude<strong>

To: johnwatson

From: sh

March 31, 6: 37 pm

John,

I understand that you feel I have overstepped your boundaries. I accept your stance on the matter. I only ask you do not make the true events of that night public. I'm sure you understand the adverse effect it would undoubtedly have upon my professional work. I will be absent from Baker Street several days following April 3rd. Do pick up the rest of your belongings during that time, as I doubt you'd want to see me.

SH

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Four: With or Without You<strong>

When John reads the email, he thinks a hammer has just hit him in the chest. He can't breathe for staring at the pixels on the screen in shock, or maybe he's just numb, or maybe he doesn't even know what this is because this is not supposed to happen and Sherlock must have misunderstood something vastly important this time. He doesn't even register grabbing his jacket and hotel key and jamming his shoes on his feet until he's out the door and running to the tube.

He spends the tube ride impatient, aware that the other passengers are staring at him as he paces and mutters for the train to go faster, but as the stops tick by his pulse slows and his nerves calm. Sherlock is nothing if not dramatic, and this could just be the dying end of a series of attention-grabbing events. He surely doesn't think John's leaving him for good. Surely not.

But even so, when he approaches Baker Street he can feel his breath quicken and his fists clench. It's worry, not anger. Not any more. Two weeks have passed, and John's thought about Sherlock every single day.

The next moment he's at 221b, dropping his keys and unlocking the door with fumbling fingers, stumbling up the stairs. He's dimly aware he's yelling Sherlock's name the same way he did when he'd thought the flat had exploded at the beginning of Moriarty's game. Panicked, like he'd never see the man again.

But then John takes a look around the flat. For midday, it's dark, very dark—the curtains aren't drawn, and in the darkness the furniture looks like mountains. Sherlock obviously isn't here right now. He moves to the windows and the flat is flooded with light. The flat has obviously been lived in; the scattered books have been kicked into a corner and there's congealing cups of tea lying about. Of course Sherlock hasn't cleaned the floor or his chair, the lazy—but no, he did nearly die. He was probably too weak to handle the scrubbing it would taken to get bloodstains out of a solid wood floor.

On autopilot he moves to the kitchen to get the few cleaning products he's kept beneath the sink, and the smell of the kitchen nearly makes him gag. The chemicals that had been covering the kitchen table haven't been cleaned either, and the stench of them makes his head swim. He covers his mouth and nose with his sleeve and throws the windows open to let the odor out. He'd better check on Mrs. Hudson later and make sure that nothing had seeped down into her flat; for all John knows, Sherlock could have been using poisons again.

John looks around, cleaning spray and scrubber in hand. Sick and weak or not, even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't leave the flat this chaotic. He can feel his jaw clench and pushes down the queasiness of foreboding. John's been stupid. He should have checked at least once that Sherlock was coping on his own.

The backbreaking labour of scrubbing bloodstains out of wood occupies John's mind for the next hour. The rug and Sherlock's chair can't be salvaged; he decides he'll carry them to the alley before starting on the kitchen.

The kitchen. John doesn't want to go back in that room. That room had always been solidly Sherlock's—he'd tried to contain his experiments, but of course they had spread like a mould to occupy every available surface. But now, instead of being filled with the manic energy of Sherlock's research, the room is filled with the aura of life that's been slashed open and desecrated.

He doesn't look at the bloodstain on the wall. Thank God it's tile and will come off fairly easily. He carefully pours the liquid chemicals into the sink, keeping the water on to hopefully dilute the acid Sherlock was using. He takes the red-stained scrub brush and begins attacking the table and floor, finding Sherlock's bloody shirt tangled up in a corner; that goes strait into the rubbish bin.

It should be cathartic, ridding the flat of the remnants of that night, but it's not. It brings the somewhat dulled memories to the forefront of John's memory and now with each breath John can see Sherlock's crumpled body swim before his eyes as he scrapes the dried blood off of the walls. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, ignore the lingering panic and fear and anger, but it pounds in his ears and pulses in his fingertips and greys his vision. Finally he drops the brush, leans on the newly-cleaned table, and digs the palms of his hands into his eyes, but there's no escape from the haunting sight of Sherlock's cold body. This is a nightmare John knows he'll have forever.

His fingers are shaking like rattling bones, but John ignores them as he tries to hold together the pieces of himself that are flying apart. His best friend nearly died and all he wanted was to see John, and what did John do? Started an argument about the very emotions and reasonings he knew confused Sherlock and then walked out on him as soon as he got out of the A&E.

Sherlock nearly died, nearly _died_, and John left him because he'd cooked up the plan himself. It shouldn't have mattered to John if Sherlock had gotten stabbed chasing down a criminal or if he'd been hit in a freak accident with a drunk driver or if he'd put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. He'd been seriously hurt and John wasn't there, had actually _said_ he wasn't going to be there for Sherlock any longer. That went far beyond simple overreaction; what he'd said and done was unforgivable.

And what if Sherlock hadn't been eating? What if he'd tried to go out and wrestle a few thugs right after John had left? It was John's responsibility to make sure Sherlock was recovering, and he'd walked out on it. _Well, better late than never, _John tells himself, getting off of the table. He washes his hands carefully and decides to just throw away the rags and brush he'd used to clean all the blood, feeling absurd to be worrying about biohazards in a flat like theirs.

The refrigerator door opens, and John's already sensitive stomach rebels. He makes it to the bathroom just in time and it's only after his stomach has emptied its contents that he realizes something is wrong. He'd reached for his toothbrush and his fingers had grasped only air. That's odd; had Sherlock moved his toothbrush? So John opens all the cabinets and searches the under the sink and finds that _none_ of his toiletries are in the bathroom. Not his shampoo. Not his spare razor. Not even the shaving cream that Sherlock habitually stole.

But he doesn't have time to worry about that now with the refrigerator as it is. John heads back to the kitchen and opens the door cautiously, holding his breath.

The sight of it astounds him. It looks as if Sherlock had opened every single container, placed it on the counter, and allowed its contents to spoil before returning it to the refrigerator. White and green mould is peeking out of the openings of nearly every container and bottle; the milk is yellow and thick with bacteria; that sandwich John hadn't eaten for lunch two days before the incident is actually liquefied. The stench makes John's chest shake with dry heaves.

He decides to throw away absolutely everything in the refrigerator and then sterilize the inside with the strongest cleaner they own, because right now he'd rather lick a plateful of Sherlock's dried blood than reuse even one container in that fridge.

The work is easy, if disgusting, and John finds himself done far quicker than he'd thought. His feet naturally gravitate to Sherlock's room, the only room he hasn't checked save his own. He opens the door with trepidation, prepared to see something as sick and disturbing as the blood all over the living room or the refrigerator full of rotted food, but what he sees is at once far less disgusting and far more disturbing then either sight had been.

It looks like Sherlock had destroyed nearly everything he owns. His bedcovers have been thrown off the bed and are half buried with ripped-out sheets and shattered paperweights and shredded books. His clothes lie in heaps on the floor and a large map of Ireland is pinned carelessly to one wall; the marking pins have ripped viscously through the thin paper and have gouged the wallpaper behind them. Various locations have been circled with a red marker and then crossed out or written over or torn out of the map; at the top of the map he'd written 'WHAT DOES IT EVEN MATTER' in large block letters.

John steps back in shock and feels something crunch under his foot; he looks down and finds Sherlock's framed Diploma of Graduate in Biochemistry at Cambridge University has been hurled against the wall to lie shattered where his foot now rests.

A horrible suspicion begins forming in John's mind and it flutters in his gut like a twisted version of a butterfly. _Let's consider this, John, _he tells himself viscously, furious at his stubborn selfishness that night. _Two weeks ago, Sherlock tries to manipulate you home and nearly dies whilst doing so; you blame him, yell at him, and then leave, despite the fact that he's still very weak and obviously unhealthy. He utterly destroys his room, lets all the food spoil, and leaves the blood and chemicals all over the flat. He blames himself for making you leave, and he's letting it destroy him._

_I never should have left._

It's never taken John longer to climb the stairs to his room, but he's never dreaded seeing it more.

His room—unlike the rest of the flat, unlike how John himself usually keeps it—is spotless. Pristine. It's never looked better. The dressers are perfectly dusted; the bed is perfectly made; his clothes are expertly folded, and his spare pyjamas have been arranged carefully on the bed along with one of his thick jumpers. His laptop is shut off and carefully tucked into a corner, and the little book John uses to keep notes in during cases has been left in the exact centre of the desk. Leaning against the wall behind it is a photograph, a photograph Sherlock has always carried in his jacket pocket.

John leans in closer. It's a slightly blurry copy of the shot Mrs. Hudson had snapped of them last fall, and seeing it makes John's chest burn. They're standing quite close together, and Sherlock is looking at him and grinning as John smiles contentedly at the camera. He remembers that night. It had been before he'd gotten involved with Susan.

They look so happy, and John realizes that he may have misunderstood far more that night than Sherlock did.


	3. Act 3

**Charm and Strange:** **Hello to all of you. I have three things I want to say, so here they are:**

**1.** I'm sorry for how late this chapter is. I got writer's block from-of all things-watching Season 2 of Sherlock. I've managed to correct it, but to do that I've not been able to watch the last episode. I'd appreciate it if no one left gaping spoilers for it in the comments section.

**2.** Thank you to all who have reviewed so far. It's a great encouragement; I love getting reviews. An extra-special thanks goes to **KayMoon24**, **Mirith Griffin**, **Garonne**, and **shadowsofyore**, who have all encouraged me to get over my writer's block. Couldn't have done it without you guys, so thanks.

**3.** I meant to include a bar scene with Sherlock and Mirith Griffin's West Ham Fan, but it didn't quite feel right in this chapter. I've decided to post it as a separate one shot, so it should be coming up this week (or next, depending on how horrible my organic chemistry teacher decides to make my life).

**4.** Alright, I lied, I've got four. _LOOK AT THE DATES ON THE HEADING OF EACH SECTION._ It will help you understand what's going on.

* * *

><p><strong>Scene One: Phone Call (Early August)<strong>

* * *

><p>"And how are you, Sherlock? It's been...yes, five months since you've seen Doctor Watson, correct?"<p>

It should be an innocent enough question, but it's not, and Sherlock's heart stutters before picking up speed, clenching and aching in his chest.

"Mycroft," Sherlock starts, voice low, raw, unprepared. "It's-It's been so long..."

He can hear Mycroft's breath gently puffing into his speaker. Sherlock closes his eyes, clears his throat, forces his voice to glibly continue on. "...That I don't remember him very well at all."

_What am I saying? My tongue forms these words without my brain processing them, analysing what statement they are in response to. It seems to matter very little, now. My tongue can form what it wants, bisect and point like the Devil's himself for all it matters to me._

"—Not any more, at least. Is it really so important to remember the reasons? It doesn't bother me now. It's been months. I've gotten used to life without him."

He can't help but pause at the lie, mouth twisting at one corner in miserable anguish. He licks his lips, clenching his eyes shut. It's a crime, how smooth his voice remains.

"Indeed, Mycroft, restoring our relationship to its proper state would cause such disorder I'd never be able to put it back in its place."

Sherlock pauses, waits for a response, any response. Finally, a light snort breezes through the line onto Sherlock's eardrum. "Are you done, little brother?"

Impatience flairs in Sherlock's mind, exacerbated by the lingering anguish he still feels. "I will be fine, Mycroft.I _am_ lasting hold did he have, after all? It is proving to be nothing enduring."

_Months after you've left I still expect to see your tread upon the stairs, hear your voice raised in umbrage, smile with you in countless moments that matter only to us. I am beginning to think of myself as a dog, and you as Pavlov's bell; or perhaps I am the captor and you are finally tired of Stockholm Syndrome._

_John, dear John, stealing, lying, killing for you is nothing to me. I would commit those sins and many more, yet I know your own inner priest is far more vengeful than you show to the world. You know who I am, John; my only god is myself, and no one wallows in sin more than I._

_I am writing an obituary, though yours or mine I cannot tell. My mind thinks of empty deserts and bombed-out cities, of you just out of my reach. My memories of you will not dull with time, whatever I may say and even hope. This hold cannot be forgotten, my John, even if it is all you'll permit me to have of you._

"He will not be remembered, because there was nothing memorable in our relationship." Sherlock bites out, opening his eyes. The glassy starlight silver of earlier has been replaced by a hard, flat grey that is mirrored in his voice.

_Blasphemy, Sherlock. _"Indeed, it has already begun to fade."

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Two: He Likes Them Insane (Late April)<strong>

* * *

><p>It is nearly three in the morning, and I wonder what you are doing. By all rights I should be asleep; I stopped dreaming of Afghanistan the first month I moved to Baker Street, and it's not the room. It's nice, if too sleek and satiny and lacy for my tastes. But the bed's comfortable—it's not mine, but that's not what's wrong.<p>

It's you. I can't get you out of my head. Or out of my bloodstream, because that's what's really missing you. You're made of adrenaline and I'm your junkie. It's an absurd thought, because even though I remember thinking that without you I was nothing, I can exist without you. You're not oxygen, or potassium, or iron. There should be nothing you take with you when you're not here.

But there is something, because now it's three and I'm still not asleep. I miss you, and I'll admit I need that frenetic energy you cloak around you. It's your fault, too, luring me in with that half-smile and tantalizing hints about fingers in the butter dish, only to show me years later just how mad you are.

When I say it like that I sound insane.

I should probably rewind. At the time, you were just what I needed: excitement, a sense of purpose, an excuse to act like a rogue gun in the middle of London. I don't need to go into how great it was. How great it should still be. I'm not going to give anyone an excuse to keep calling me your lover, so I won't describe you like that. Besides, you've probably already deduced everything I think of you from the way I hold my tea cup.

So after saving my life, things settled down for the both of us. The bloody heads, the fingers in the crisper. Good, fine, all of it fine. And I'm having the time of my life, following along in the mad farce that's your life. Getting all this, Sherlock?

But none of that really mattered. I actually do like you, you know. I can live with waking up to find suspicious blue powder in my regimental mug. Even your shameless manipulation of other people is somehow fine. Pantsless in Buckingham Palace? Hilarious. Tricking that West Ham fan into falling in love with you so she'd tell you where the diamonds were hidden? A riot. You splitting your wrists on the floor so I'd feel guilty and spend the next week with you? A right laugh, that's what it was.

What's really rich is that I don't even think you comprehend the difference here, what makes it so completely not good, and that's the worst thing of all. It makes me wonder what I missed, what was staring me in the face these last years that I never noticed. Makes me wonder how I could have thought I was actually having an influence on you, turning you towards something good.

Or maybe I should be asking when you began to rely on me quite this much. When did having me around matter so much to you that you'd risk killing _yourself_ for it? That thought is honestly scary, Sherlock, it is. It's frightening, thinking about how I could have lived with you for all this time and not seen what was really behind your eyes. I thought I knew you. I thought you were my best friend, and now I don't know you at all.

That's what's keeping me awake, thinking about that night over and over and over. How could I have missed it? _How could I have missed it? _I don't remember any sole incident that would have tipped me off to the fact that you'd gone and turned Opheliac overnight. I know I keep saying this, but it's scary thinking of you like that, Sherlock, because I know better than anyone that you don't recognize emotions when they come.

So maybe I should be asking where this came from. Where did it develop? From me being your only friend your entire life? From sharing years of our lives together, on and off cases and the like?

God, say anything but that you love me. I've seen where love can take you, Sherlock, and I'm not even sure what you felt for that Adler woman was love. It may have been admiration. Obsession. But if that's your love, I don't want it. I'll take all the snide remarks about my intelligence that you want to throw at me, but not that. I don't want to occupy your thoughts day in and day out. I don't want you wondering about me constantly. I'm not worth ruining your brain over. I never want you not to sleep, not to eat, to so completely fall apart because of me. I care about you, you know that, and I'm in the dark as to why you're so keen on wilfully disobeying everything I've told you to do when you're so desperate for the rest of me.

_Desperate_. Even the word gives me chills. Sherlock Holmes, of all people, shouldn't be desperate for me. When did it turn from friendship to _this_? And what the hell is "this," anyway? I wish you could just tell me, like you tell me everything else. I also wish I could just go back to Baker Street and open a beer and sit around the fire with you, just two blokes having a night of it. But that's never going to happen, so I'm not going to waste myself imagining.

Beside me, a body stirs. It's Susan. I sigh. I'm not going to think about why I haven't thought of her once tonight, even though I'm in her bed and those are her breasts pressed against my arm. I think that's one question we both know the answer to anyhow, don't we Sherlock?

Just how long were you trying to get me to see that, and so much more? I've been blind, so _very_ blind. But then, you already know that.

The body beside me curls in closer and some part of me is shaken back to reality, like a spell's been broken. I grit my teeth and pull away, swinging my legs off the edge of the bed and standing up. My back arches as I stretch and I turn towards the window. I pull the too-lacy curtain to one side and stare blindly out at the black street below.

It's pouring rain, the water coming down in hard pellets that pelt the ground like stray bullets. No one should be out in this, not even a stray dog. It's so cold that the window has condensation forming on it. I press my fingers gently to the glass, pausing to stare at them when they come away wet and dripping. I press them back and smear them across the glass in a wide arc, clearing a line of sight out onto the street.

Sherlock would be out, if he were on a case, and I'd be with him. Out. In this weather. Probably catch our deaths of pneumonia; him more likely than me, with that smoking habit he won't give up. The water on my fingers still hasn't dried. I clench my fist and the water smears over the palm of my hand.

Something catches my eyes when I tilt my head up from my fist again. Two spots of silver flash from a doorway across the way, winking in and out of focus as if their owner was blinking them rapidly. Just like as if someone was trying to blink curly strands of water-logged hair out of his silver eyes. Could that really be...

"John?"

As soon as I tear my eyes away from the two pinpoints of light they're gone. Like they weren't ever there. Like I imagined them.

"Come to bed John," the voice says, and presses those breasts against my back. A mouth latches on to the side of my throat and I sigh, knowing what's being offered and knowing I'll take it.

I follow the breasts back to their bed and try to forget silver eyes and dark hair and pale skin.

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Three: Nothing and Everything (Evening of April First)<strong>

* * *

><p>John's been here. Sherlock can see it in every bend, every curve of wood and plaster and tile. He swallows, and his heart is clenching in his chest like it's in its final throws. Is there no where that's safe? Is there no sacred sanctuary in this war?<p>

The new cleanliness of the flat is secondary to John's scent. Sherlock can imagine that he can smell it curling around him like a comforting, smothering fog. He breathes in deep, hopes he now has John's epithelial cells somewhere in his trachea, his terminal bronchioles. He holds his breath long enough that his lungs begin to burn and he's forced to exhale, and it's like John's leaving him all over again.

He almost doesn't want to open his eyes, but somehow he finds he can see despite it. The flat's spotless, and every surface gleams with John. He turns, and the pools of John-Was-Here merge into a brilliant blur of sensory overload. He's surrounded, and he can't stand it.

He staggers to the sink, mortally wounded, and that's when he sees it. A note, scribbled in John's messy doctor's hand on a blank sheet of paper and left innocently next to the stove.

Sherlock picks it up, and his hand's aren't shaking. He reads it, and he isn't gasping for breath. His eyes aren't wide, and they certainly aren't trying not to leak liquid. He doesn't drop it into the fire, and he doesn't remember anything after that.

He wishes the last part was actually true.

What Sherlock wishes he couldn't remember is his hands opening, letting the paper fall through them as if his fingers are suddenly to weak to carry the thin sheet. He wishes he couldn't remember clenching his jaw against the moisture in his eyes, moisture he's terrified to realize is there. He wishes he couldn't remember leaving the kitchen, stumbling on hesitant feet, as if they're suddenly unsure of themselves. The living room is too bright, too full of blinding reminders of John, and so he raises a hand to shield his sensitive eyes and continues down the short hallway to his bedroom.

If the living room was blinding, this room burns out his eyes like a blowtorch being held to the soft jelly of his retina. The room doesn't glow with remnants of John—in fact, it's untouched, as if the other man did nothing more than open the door, and that's even worse. It's as if John is holding him for trial and judging all his life inferior and contemptible, telling him that his broken and twisted being is not worth trying to put back together. John is telling him that he thinks he'd be better off dead, that he regretted saving his life. He could be shouting it, screaming it from the wreck that is Sherlock's untouched room.

It is after Sherlock turns away in horror that everything starts to become numb. He walks to the living room because it doesn't matter where he goes now and he stands in the centre of the room and turns around in a circle, staring at the shining flat. He's suddenly aware of that last vestige of John burning away in the grate and he strides over to the fireplace with a cry, falling to his knees in front of the burning logs.

The pain as he digs his long fingers through the cinders and ash is annoying only because it forces him to slow down as his nerve endings scream in protest, and the agony of his burn blisters is laughably negligible when he finds that the last scrap of John's handwriting has burned away.

Sherlock never quite finds out what happened to that blissful, momentary numbness, though he knows better to try and recreate it. Crystal, scag, his dear nicotine...Oh, Sherlock would solute them all, worship them like the homicidal gods of self-destruction they are if only they could make him forget.

He doesn't come to himself until dawn breaks.

* * *

><p><em>1 April 20XX<em>

_Sherlock,_

_Look, I don't know what happened that night, but I don't think you really do either. The only thing I'm sure of is that we can't continue like this. You're my best friend, Sherlock, and nothing could ever change that except for you, but not everything is okay. What's hard is that I know you don't understand the difference, and I know you can't see why that wasn't good and so much else was._

_I guess it's that you've never purposefully hurt anyone before. At least no one who was innocent. There's a difference between shooting a murdering cab driver and what you did. It's even different from that time you ignored finding the hostage because you knew her captors were dead; you weren't the one who did that to her. You hurt yourself, Sherlock, and you did it to get to me and I'd rather you didn't find a hundred hostages because what you did here was so much worse it's not even comparable._

_You hurt yourself to hurt me, Sherlock, and I don't want you to hurt yourself because you think it will change the way I think about you. I don't want you to hurt yourself because you think it will make me listen to you. I don't even want you to hurt yourself because you think it will make me see sense. I don't want to worry about coming home because I don't want to see you dead in front of the fireplace again. I don't want to have to worry about upsetting you because I'll never be sure of the reaction it will cause. If this is what I do to you, Sherlock—if it is me that causes this response—_

_God, I don't even know. I'd rather I never met you, because I don't deserve that and what were you _doing_, thinking that was fine. You're my best friend. Best friends don't do that. _

_I can't live here like this. I've got to leave until you don't react like that every time I do something you don't like. I've got everything I need with me, so I won't be back for a while. I know you can pay the rent on your own, so don't contact me about that. Don't contact me at all, actually. I don't want to hear from you right now._

_With all sincerity,_

_Dr. John H. Watson_

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Four: A Very Common Crisis (Early May)<strong>

* * *

><p>"...and then I'm meeting Maggie and Laura for lunch in Harrods. Thought we'd do a bit of shopping after. I was thinking of picking you up a new tie, what do think, John?" Susan turns from where she's applying her red lipstick and raises her eyebrows at John, who's leaning against the bathroom doorway with his hands in his pockets and trying to pay attention.<p>

Susan's pretty today, but then, she's always pretty, with her dark hair and pale skin and elegant red nails. Her hair is swept up from her neck in a casual up-do and the cardigan she's thrown over the top of her bright, floral print blouse matches her lipstick perfectly. She dresses fashionably, as if she's ten years younger than she is. John's never asked her how she manages to look so perfect when the other chemists he knows _(Sherlock)_ have stained hands and acid-bleached clothing.

"John? Did you hear me?"

He shakes his head slightly and blinks, hitching up the corners of his lips in a smile. "You're going to Harrods for lunch? Bit expensive, yeah?"

Susan smiles deprecatingly at him and it reminds him of Mycroft. "John, dear," she purrs, walking closer and running her long nails down the side of his cheek. The tight, snake-like smile is still in place. "You're a doctor. Of course I can afford to go to Harrods for lunch. Maybe we could go more often once you've taken that surgeon's position you applied for."

He closes his eyes, and he can feel Susan's smirk through his eyelids. He feels tired, so tired, and it hits him now like it's done a thousand times before in last two weeks: He doesn't love her any more, isn't sure how he ever did. He wonders if he closes his eyes long enough if she'll disappear like a bad dream.

But of course she's still here when he opens them, so he tilts his head, turns on the smile that's conquered three continents worth of women. "We'll talk later, Susan. You need to meet your friends, and I've got to leave for that extra shift I picked up from Stevenson."

She narrows her eyes at him and pauses, not to be distracted. "You _are_ taking it?" It's barely a question.

Something in John snaps open, detaches itself from him, and settles on the bathroom wall like John's very own fortune teller. He can see himself quitting his job, settling into the time-intensive schedule of a true surgeon. And there's Susan, with pearls and diamonds, loving the money, going to parties, quitting her job, because who wants to be a chemist when you could be a socialite?

And then she'll cheat on him, because _of course_ she will, and she'll get pregnant, and he'd forever be wondering if those kids are really his. Maybe he wouldn't even be able to tell, because he's short and blond and full of recessive alleles that certainly wouldn't be present if he reproduced with the tall and dark Susan. He wouldn't let it bother him, though, because they're _children _and will deserve better than that. They'd move to the suburbs, of course, and John can't help but think that he'd slowly be driven mad from the mundaneness of it all.

It would only take a few years to build up generous collage funds for their two children, and then he'd be dropped like the ageing, regretful soldier he is. And then what would he do? Go back to Sherlock? Right. As if Sherlock would take him back after that.

Good Lord. He's talking as if he's dating the man.

And then the world comes back to itself and John's left blinking at his most recent stint as an oracle.

He shifts, straitens up, and looks Susan right in the eye, takes her hands in his. God, he'd hate being tied to her. He needs excitement, adrenaline, not her inept attempts to make him a socialite like herself. "I've got it all figured out. We'll talk later."

She smiles tightly and pecks him on the cheek before leaving, calling out, "Remember, we've got the Ashdown's party to go to later!"

John rolls his eyes. "I didn't forget, Susan," he yells out after her. It's not a lie. He didn't forget. He's just not going.

* * *

><p>When he comes home from the A&amp;E, he's smiling. He hasn't felt this relaxed since, well, since before he met Susan. The irony is not lost on him. He whistles a tune he heard on the radio this morning as he fixes himself a cup of tea and changes out of his work clothes and into a sensible pair of trousers and his old striped jumper.<p>

He's reading a new—hilariously ridiculous—action novel when Susan returns from her day out. She's carrying more bags than he wants to count, and he sags with relief when he remembers that his credit card is safely in his pocket. He continues to sit and watch her over the top of his novel as she struggles into the flat. It's oddly gratifying, watching her battling with the bags without him; it soothes the small, petty part of him that wants to see Susan's life fall apart around her ears. He feels like it's something Sherlock would do, and then wonders if that means every time Sherlock didn't help him with the shopping that he was mad at him. He doesn't think so.

A few minutes later, Susan returns and pauses in front of John's chair. He looks up, tilts his head innocently. "Hello again. Did you have a good time?"

Susan sighs and pulls the book out of his hands. "John, we've got to leave for the party in an hour, and you haven't showered yet? You know I don't like the flat to smell like the A&E. Tell me you've at least looked up the topics on that list I gave you—you know, the topics Marc Ashdown likes talking about. I know you don't know a thing about golf."

John stands up and he can feel the innocent look falling away. "I'm not going to that party tonight," he says, and his voice is as serious as a heart attack, as point-blank as it was years ago when he first told Ella nothing happened to him.

Susan gapes at him, uncomprehending. "Why? Are you not feeling well?"

"Nope, just not going," he annunciates, and he's not altogether surprised to feel the slight upward curve his lips have taken on. He's been waiting for this longer than he thought.

Susan backs away, blinking, finally catching on that something Very Wrong is about to happen to her world. "What do you mean, John?"

He exhales, considers the woman in front of him, and starts speaking. "I'm not going to that bloody party. I don't know anyone there, just like I haven't known anyone at the last two parties you took me to. And for God's sake, I'm not looking up a bunch of topics I don't care about just because you want to impress some businessman. Secondly," and John pauses, looks at Susan's face, and decides to screw the list he'd come up with. His discontent is already pouring out of him in waves. "I'm not quitting my job. I like it at the A&E. Those curtains you bought for the bedroom are hideous. _I don't wear pink—_I don't care if it looks metro—and I've always hated the suburbs. We're not moving there."

_Deep breath, John. _"I don't love you, Susan, and I'm certainly not going to marry you. Find someone else to be your trophy husband."

Susan gapes at him in shock, tears beginning to pool in her eyes as full import of what John is saying dawns on her.

Later, he thinks he rather deserves the slap and the insults, but as he lugs his two suitcases behind him in search of a cheap hotel, he decides that waiting until he'd found a cheap apartment wouldn't have been a bad idea.


	4. Act 4

**A/N: **Any resemblance of emails or names used to any other person or email is purely coincidental, except in the case of Mr. Dominic J. Tremp, Sr. The author asks that readers please leave the owners of these names and emails alone, on the off-chance that they're actually real. Thank you.

Also, I am about ready to murder whoever came up with the formatting for this website. **BOLD** things are scene changes, everything else is an in-scene change. Hopefully it will make sense.

* * *

><p><strong>Scene One: Temporary, Part One<strong>

It's been nearly a year, and Sherlock is tired of self-pity. He's started cleaning, or at least organizing. His files are, instead of all over the floor and stuffed into the toaster, piled into haphazard stacks that at least take up no more than one corner of his flat. He doesn't cook any more than he used to, but if Mrs. Hudson has started to bring up "leftovers" too regularly to be coincidence, and if he's started paying her, well, that's his affair.

Lestrade mercifully made no comment when Sherlock started saying "I'll be there" instead of "We'll be there" when referring to crime scenes. It took Sherlock weeks to be able to say that without pausing beforehand to either swallow or grit his teeth. The one time he messes up and mentions him (Day 253 After John at 7:23am, and he'd gotten no sleep for four days) Lestrade doesn't even call him on it, and blessedly Sherlock hadn't been in hearing distance of Donovan or Anderson.

The two of them start referring to That Day as a "break-up," and to John as his "ex." They snicker together that Sherlock must be a terrible lay, with all the girls John kept bringing back home, and Sherlock has long since learned in turn that neither gritting his teeth in silence nor making a comment about their own torrid—and passionless—affair does anything to deter them.

The worst thing is that they are right in a sense, and yet John is both more and less than an ex, or at least as Donovan would consider one. Sherlock is not so wasted on pop-culture to not know that his and John's…_relationship_ was a bromance for the ages, and their "break-up" has been the internet sensation of the year. At least he is no longer photographed everywhere he goes. There is nothing _good_ about him for others to see without John there to point it out and cultivate it.

He doesn't dislike this life, though there is little he can say in favor of it. He is alone now, alone as he ever was. It is truth, and there is no room for emotion in truth.

What Sherlock doesn't like to admit is that he is unable to _delete_ John. Memories of him have crept out of their neat box and into the rest of Sherlock's mental files, and at this point he doesn't know what deleting John would do to him. In Sherlock's mind, John is irrevocably associated with his cases, and Sherlock is loath to delete his cases.

Truthfully, Sherlock thinks of John often. It is nothing but association. He does it as naturally as thinking of tea, or of Mrs. Hudson. There are very few times that he finds himself actually _missing_ John, however. Sherlock is a machine, and John is not an essential part of his existence. There is nothing left between them, and Sherlock has accepted that fact with the same readiness and detachedness that he would accept that the sun gives off light.

That is the simple truth.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Remnants, Part One<strong>

To: Leon Robertson

From: prettynpink12

Subject: Tomorrow :)

Sent 17 June 6:45pm

Hi daddy! I cant wait for tomorow! Ur picking me up at noon, rite? Mum's at work so i can't ask her. She said shed b home really late 2day. I think its work. Or Mike. I like u better than Mike daddy.

Love you xoxo

Amber :)

* * *

><p>To: prettynpink12<p>

From: Leon Robertson

Subject: Re: Tomorrow

Sent 17 June 6:52pm

Hello Amber!

Yes, I was supposed to pick you up tomorrow, but if your mother is going to be out all night I'll pick you up earlier. Please be ready in twenty minutes, and remember to ask who it is when the buzzer sounds. It's not always going to be me, baby.

Love you more,

Daddy

* * *

><p>To: M Robertson<p>

From: Leon Robertson

Subject: Our daughter

Sent 17 June 6:58pm

Morgan,

What the hell are you doing, working late and leaving Amber home alone? She's only nine, even if she types like a bloody preteen, and she can't run a house whilst you're not there. I'm coming by early to pick her up.

No love,

Leon

* * *

><p>To: Leon Robertson<p>

From: MAILER-DAEMON

Sent 17 June 6:59pm

Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to the following address: m_robertson. The host does not have an email address on file of that name.

* * *

><p>To: M Ashfield<p>

From: Leon Robertson

Subject: Have we really sunk that low?

Sent 17 June 7:44pm

What the hell are you doing, working late and leaving Amber home alone? She's only nine, Morgan, for God's sake. I've got her now, so you don't worry about stopping your day to take care of our bloody child.

Leon

PS: Thanks for letting me know of the name change, Morgan.

* * *

><p><strong>Setting: The Story of a Murderer, Part One<strong>

She didn't like the term _murderess_. It was too close to seductress, to mistress, to all those things that were dark and dangerous and stank of sex and leather. She was a good girl, a small town girl who still curled her blonde hair into ringlets and wore cardigans over her floral-print dresses. She had always considered herself happy; she always dreamed of the white picket fence and the three children, had picked out what flowers she wanted in her garden and learned her grandmother's scone recipe.

Maybe that was why when Brendan came around, she'd thought she found true love. He was a mechanic from the next town over, and he was big and strong and nice to her and paid attention to her and even got her those pretty pearl earrings. When she dreamed of their children, they all had his green eyes.

She didn't panic when he got her pregnant too. Her Brendan would marry her, she was sure, and she was right. They bought a little cottage in the country on a plot of land his daddy owned and he painted the room for the baby himself. On afternoons when he was at the mechanics' she loved nothing more than sitting in the rocking chair in their baby's room, stroking her stomach and wondering who that child would be.

And then one day it was over. The baby was gone, and so were her uterus and her ovaries. She was shattered; uterine cancer had taken everything that had really mattered in her life. She clung to Brendan like a lifeline. She thought she would always have him at least, but that was before he'd stayed one night too late at work and she'd found out about the cute young waitress he was fucking.

So then that gorgeous house in the country was gone, and so was Brendan, and she found herself alone with too many thoughts. She'd always been the perfect girl next door—not too memorable, not too pretty, not too successful or intelligent or witty or charming or happy or good at anything.

That was the day she threw away her dresses, moved into the city, and stopped thinking.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Remnants, Part Two<strong>

"We're losing her! Where's the godforsaken crash cart?!"

"Look at that, it must have been something she ate—"

"Then get the goddamned ipecac! You're a resident, not an imbecile,"

"I'm not giving her any bloody ipecac until we know what she ate!"

"Fuck the fucking ipecac, you two! CLEAR!"

* * *

><p>"Daddy?"<p>

Leon jumps, then checks the time at the corner of the computer screen before looking at his daughter. He'd put her to bed two and a half hours ago. "What, sweetie?"

The girl rubs her eyes and sleep-mussed hair and clambers idly onto his lap. She curls her small body into the protective mass of Leon's before speaking. "Did Mum call you today?"

"No, baby. I tried her mobile, but it was turned off. I'm sure she'll call tomorrow."

Amber looks up at him with doubt in her big brown eyes and, dammit, Leon would move heaven and earth to see a smile on her face again. "But she didn't call yesterday. Or the day before that."

Instead of answering, Leon sighs and tilts his head forward to press a kiss into her hair. Amber is right. Morgan would never go this long before contacting Leon, especially after that last email he sent her.

Something must be very wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Two: Temporary, Part Two<strong>

Sometimes it feels as if the world is ripping apart, imploding and exploding all at once, little strips of reality peeling off of the rust of the world and floating upwards. Sometimes Sherlock is half convinced that if he turns around in the busting London streets full of life he'll see nothing but bent and twisted towers of iron and ramshackle heaps of bones behind him. It feels as if pestilences and fires follow in his footsteps, sweeping out from his billowing overcoat to swallow the whole world. He is dark and impatient and angry, frustrated at the world and waiting for it to end.

He would swallow the earth, cut out its light, lay inky nighttime blackness over all of London. He is larger than life, a shadow peering down out of the ether to peek into windows and down chimneys. Rooftops and ceilings are no protection from him; they are peeled off as easily as old scabs. Opened, Sherlock imagines they would be filled with plots, and subterfuges, and thoughts and intricacies and plans; their closets would be filled with old skeletons and ghosts and _some_ would have to be original.

Four o'clock in the morning suddenly becomes a brilliant time to do _anything_ because it's been so long since Sherlock's eyes have closed for a reasonable amount of time and even when they do it's not enough and he's so, so tired and his brain can't shut off because it isn't lack of material that's wrecking him, it's these infernal living dreams.

He thinks one night that he might have killed God in a test tube back one day in high school, and then learns that it apparently takes around five days to hallucinate from lack of sleep.

Though he may feel it, he knows he's not even close to falling apart. Falling apart was lying, half naked and filthy, on a stranger's floor in his university years after taking a hit. His observation skills are fine and his deduction is as mechanically brilliant as always. He waits for a truly fascinating case to present itself and in the meantime devotes his time to converting all of the parts of Camille Saint-Saens' _Danse Macabre_ to the violin.

Then there are days where it seems like he can see the past and present and future of London from looking out of his windows. The city is bright, vibrant, and alive, and he wonders why he can only see in shades of grey when the world is painted in color. The irony of spending his life locked in a graveyard of blood and murder inside his head is not lost on him, and he wonders if he should feel afraid or melancholy that he simply does not care.

* * *

><p><strong>Setting: The Story of a Murderer, Part Two<strong>

There are many things she has forgotten about her life, and that is the only way she can say that it was happy. If anyone asks her about her past, she tells them about her mother's horrible baking and how her father always hunted for the perfect goose for Christmas dinner. She fondly reminisces on the songs her mother sang on Sunday mornings and the old, rusted-out car her father always swore he'd fix one day but never did.

In reality, the past these memories convey is far from the truth. The family she was born into was perpetually poor; their clothes were always threadbare, their stomachs half-empty. She doesn't know much about her father because he was a drunk who would come home from work late with whiskey on his breath and his fists clenched in front of him, and her mother tried to shield her from her father's violence as much as she could.

Then there was the day her father had been so drunk he had aimed for his daughter instead. She doesn't remember the A&E, though she remembers not being able to ride the neighbor's horses for months, and smiling at her father with a bland respectfulness with nothing behind her eyes. Nowadays she covers the scars on her legs with hosiery and tells friends it was the car accident that killed her parents. It's enough for them to stop talking, though seeing their pitying faces is almost as bad. It's not like she deserves this pity, after all—nothing happened.

But in the back of her mind, she knows. She remembers. Somewhere, tucked away in a dark and dusty corner, lies all the horror her conscious mind rejected. The truth of it lies in the burned-out shell of her house (an accident), the cold graves of her parents (an _accident_), in the empty smile she gave her grandparents when they took her in. She's okay, she's alright. She has problems sleeping; she dreams terrible, debilitating nightmares that wake her and leave her breathless, but she's fine.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>**nterlude: Remnants, Part Three**

Morgan is dead. Morgan Robertson is dead, had lain dying alone in a coma in St. Bart's as Leon cursed her for leaving their precious daughter alone.

Leon cannot get used to the "Ashfield" next to his nearly-ex-wife's first name on the official letter that had arrived with her death certificate. She is his wife, she is a Robertson. She is his _wife_.

The hospital had informed him that he was still listed as her next-of-kin and emergency contact. He feels a fool for reading into that—they were getting a divorce, she was seeing someone else, their marriage could have never worked a second time. And in any case, it doesn't matter now, because she's dead.

If he'd thought their separation had nearly killed him, he was sorely mistaken. The feelings of utter shock and numbness when Morgan left him are nothing compared to how he feels now that she's dead. After all, he'd seen the end of their marriage coming; he'd noticed how her lips formed a malicious smirk as lies slithered off of her honeyed tongue when he asked her where she'd been. At the time, he couldn't comprehend how he'd ever loved her in the first place. How dare she leave their daughter to be third place to her career and her new boyfriend? How dare she cut them out _so easily_, those who had been her life for more than a decade? It provided a taint that had soured every happy memory he had of the woman.

But this, _this_ is different. Morgan is dead, and all he can see of her is the date where he'd first realized he was in love. She was beautiful, all dark hair and pale skin, and they'd been laughing about some stupid joke someone had made. The light had caught her eyes, and as she looked at him, he knew he was gone. It had felt so right, so _perfect_. A part of him has never forgotten that moment, has remembered it through the moment he knew she was cheating on him and through horrible arguments that were spoken late at night in harsh whispers to hide from Amber.

That doesn't matter now. He loves her more than everyone besides Amber, and he regrets the last six months of not trying to work things out between them (of hearing Amber ask why Mummy didn't see her more, of not waking beside her) more than anything else in his life.

A man's voice pulls his gaze away from his wife's coffin and he faces a tall man in a suit that would have cost him half a month's salary. "Oh, you must be Morgan's husband," the man gushes, and Leon is surprised to find the man's eyes red-rimmed and raw—could this be yet another illicit boyfriend of Morgan's? But then the man seems to remember himself and says "God, sorry, I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Stephen Holmes—I interned under your wife. I'm _so_ sorry for your loss…"

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Three: Ripe for the Slaughter<strong>

**The Telegraph**

Home **News** World Sport Finance Comment Blogs Culture Travel Life Fashion Tech

Politics / **Obits** / Education / Earth / Science / Defence / Health / Scotland / Royal / Celebrities / Weird

Home News Obituaries Finance Obituaries

**Dominic J. Tremp**

Real Estate Tycoon, Dominic J. Tremp, Sr.—a household name after the premiere of The Apprentice (UK)—was found dead yesterday by his maid. This is a shock to those who knew him, as his health was notoriously good for a man of 66 years of age. Authorities are currently investigating his death, but have informed us that it looks like he died of a freak case of unusually virulent _E._ _coli_ food poisoning after eating at a prominent West End barbecue establishment. He is survived by four ex-wives and seven children.

Dominic J. Tremp, born 14 June 1946, died 27 June

* * *

><p><strong>The Telegraph<strong>

Home News Obituaries Medicine Obituaries

**Lucinda Hawkins**

Lucinda Hawkins, the Assistant Director of University College Hospital in London died Tuesday of an allergic reaction to shellfish while eating at a popular restaurant and bar near her place of residence. Representatives of the restaurant insist that all proper precautions were put in place, and do not know how this unfortunate accident could have occurred. Authorities have officially labeled her death an accident. She is survived by a brother and an aunt.

Lucinda Hawkins, born 28 March 1975, died 9 June

* * *

><p><strong>The Telegraph<strong>

Home News Obituaries Science Obituaries

**Hugh Lloyd Pierson**

Hugh Lloyd Pierson, who had died age 29, was the founder of Pierson Laboratories, Inc., a private company who provided genetic testing for overworked police departments and labs across the country. Authorities tell us he died after drinking coffee lased with chemicals the lab frequently worked with. As coffee is used in the lab's microbiology work, authorities are treating the incident as an unfortunate accident. Mr. Pierson is survived by a wife and two young daughters.

Hugh Lloyd Pierson, born 7 February 1983, died 20 June

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock's Bookmarks<strong>

In Folders: New Cases: Poisonings

**The Telegraph**

William Jones, salesman, hospitalized in late March for severe food allergy

Maria Lopez, secretary, hospitalized for three days in early April from severe food poisoning

Marcus Canelli, Italy-UK trader, died 16 April, food allergy

Katia Pikul, biochemistry professor, died 3 May, poison, determined to be angry ex-grad student

Lucinda Hawkins, hospital asst admin, died 30 May, food allergy

Hugh L Pierson, entrepreneur, died 5 June, accidental poisoning

Dominic J. Tremp, real estate, died 27 June, accidental food poisoning

Morgan Ashfield (Robertson), banking, died 4 July, non-accidental food poisoning

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Discovery<strong>

Gloria was not a patient woman, and she'd be the first to admit it. She'd already been patient enough with that recent immigrant from Italy, what with barely understanding his words and all. When he told her he'd have the first months' rent in a few weeks after he found a job, she agreed to hold off on the due date. And that was all decided by _pantomiming_ to each other.

Well, she had exactly eighteen minutes until the roast was ready, and so Gloria thought she had better go upstairs and see just what that Marcus was doing with her rent this time. He'd waved to her that the rent wouldn't be a problem when he'd gotten that stellar job downtown doing something at Lloyd's Bank. Lord bless that man, she hoped it was _nothing_ having to do with speaking.

But oh good God, what was that smell? If that man wasn't taking out his garbage or was spreading feces on the walls like her last tenants—

"Mr. Canelli? Hello? It's Gloria," she yelled, rapping on the door. No answer. Muttering, she took out her key and opened the door, pushing it aside roughly. Bloody immigrants, could never trust them to behave like true Englishmen…

And then the smell hit her. She gagged, tasting bile, and tried to shield her face from the stench with her hand. What in the world…? It smelled like her tenant had opened his freezer and let everything rot in the middle of the living room!

Wait. Rotting meat? And was that the buzzing of flies she heard?

She rounded the corner of the entrance way in horror, dreading what might be there on the floor waiting for her.

This time her hand didn't stop the vomit from coming out.

Hours later, the police informed her that he must have been dead for at least a week.

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Four: While You Were Sleeping<strong>

It's the sixth of July, and Sherlock is a tornado.

Or maybe it's just that Donovan looks like she'd be happier if she'd looked up from her desk to find the latter rather than the former. For his part, Sherlock leafs through his pile of newspaper clippings with barely-veiled patience until she is off the phone before smoothly saying, "Hello, Donovan. I need to speak to Lestrade. It's rather urgent."

Grinning incredulously, she snorts and looks around her as if trying to get someone else in on the joke. "Freak," she replies, staring right at him, "DI Lestrade isn't in right now."

Right. Sherlock puts his best put-upon expression in place. "Tut-tut, Sgt. Donovan, you know better than to lie to me by now, don't you? When will you stop trying to be clever? Repeated failure isn't a flattering look on you." The faux-friendly façade falls, and he levels the full force of his stare on her. "Get Lestrade, preferably before anyone else dies because of how long you've waited."

She scoffs and turns away, but he can see her swallow. "Freak, he's out at lunch, I bloody told you—"

Whatever patience Sherlock had under John is clearly gone. He puts both palms on the table and leans toward her, a rather primal show of dominance that will nevertheless have an impact on a rather primal mind like Donovan's. "And I told you, Donovan, to _stop lying_. It's 1:33 in the afternoon and your tea is nearly full, but it's an office cup, not one from Costa's like you would buy if you'd been out for lunch, and it's not like you to want another cuppa so close together. It's not that you've had a late night either, because Anderson has been more of a blithering arse than usual lately, and that wouldn't be the case if you'd spent the last night massaging his nethers."

He sighs impatiently and stands up fully, noticing that half the department is listening. Excellent; that means DI Lestrade's attention isn't far behind. "So, obviously, you never went to lunch. The only reason you would ever miss lunch is if Lestrade forbade you, which he would only do if he was swamped with paperwork that he didn't do yesterday because of his hangover—oh, don't look surprised, I can read it in your temples—and so Lestrade must be in his office, working. Simple."

By now, Donovan is bright red and seething. Slowly, she rises and steps into the conspicuous lack of personal space around him and snarls, "One day, Holmes. One day you'll be standing behind bars and I'll be the one to have put you there. Just wait."

"Ah, but that means you'll have to catch him first, Donovan, and we both know he's too bloody brilliant for that," a tired voice sounds from the left. Just on time.

Sherlock whirls around, papers in hand again, and grins. "Ah, Lestrade! Just the man I was coming to see!"

"What is it this time, Sherlock? You've got to know I don't have a case for you." Lestrade leans on the corner of Donovan's desk where she is once again sitting, trying to ignore them both.

"The state of the food industry is obviously declining," Sherlock declares, waving the file of newspaper clipping about. "It's all here. From March until now eight prominent professionals have been hospitalized for severe food-related poisonings. Six of them have died."

Lestrade takes the file with a sigh and glances at the obituary clippings. "Food poisonings? Sherlock, all of these have been labeled accidents, and we've already caught the man behind the one that wasn't."

"No, you're wrong, don't you see?" Sherlock snaps desperately. "Eight deadly food poisonings in five months, all targeting young professionals? Look at that list. You've got four victims related to finance and four related to science administration. I know that at least five of them were workaholics whose families seriously resented them."

Looking up from the papers, Lestrade gapes at him, raising an eyebrow. "What, are you trying to tell me that somewhere in London there's a murder club for all the disgruntled spouses of businessmen? Sherlock, half of London would be there!"

But Sherlock's gaze doesn't waver, and the smile slowly slides off of his face. Sherlock is being serious, deathly serious. "No," he says quietly, bleakly, right to the ominous cloud surrounding Lestrade's heart. "I'm not saying there's some sort of absurd conspiracy between day-care mothers. I'm telling you that someone with a lot of knowledge of food safety and not so many morals has noticed, and has decided to do something about it."

Lestrade swallows. "We've got us a serial killer, don't we, Sherlock?"

* * *

><p><strong>Scene Five: Gutter Songs<strong>

John Watson would be quite a catch, Dawn muses. From what she's picked up from asking around the bar, he's an ex-military man with a doctor's gentle touch and salary to boot.

Making sure her hair is still curled in its blonde ringlets, Dawn sidles up to where John is sitting at the bar, a mostly-empty drink in front of him. She sits down next to him and rests an arm under her chest, pushing it up and into John's field of vision. And oh, he does not disappoint. "I don't think I've seen you here before. Mind if I buy you a drink?"

He smiles, short and sweet at her before looking quickly away. "No, ah, thanks, but I've got work tomorrow. Busy day at the A&E and all…"

That won't do at all. Dawn calls over the bartender and asks for two beers, setting one firmly down before John. "It's on me. Come on, one beer won't kill you," she smiles, watching John debate for under a minute before grinning shortly at her and taking a sip.

"Thanks, ah—I don't think I caught your name—"

"Dawn," she says from behind her smile, watching John's eyes flash down to her chest again. God, men, she thinks, scowling. They only think of one bloody thing, don't they?

It's half an hour later and she's pretty sure John is interested. Then again, John seems to be the type of successful doctor to only be interested in cute young things with breasts _and_ brains, and Dawn knows her mediocre intelligence will only keep him interested for so long.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asks, tilting her head to the side flirtatiously. She needs to get her information out of him before he loses interest.

"Ah, no," John smiles, looking down quickly. "Haven't had one in a while, actually. My…my _work_ tends to be pretty demanding, you know, and my ex didn't like that."

Something in her smile catches over his last line and freezes. "Is it really? That's just too bad for you then, isn't it?"


End file.
